


history of touch

by zauberer_sirin



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Future Fic, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, I kill someone from the team yeah, POV Phil Coulson, more a series of vignettes really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-23 00:08:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3748270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/pseuds/zauberer_sirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six times Phil Coulson really needed a hug.</p>
            </blockquote>





	history of touch

**1.**

Of course nobody would dare to walk into his office this morning except Skye. Dare is a good word in this case.

"They shouldn't have done this," Skye says. "It's something private."

"Maybe it shouldn't be," he tells her. "I'm a public figure now. I should be held accountable."

"Not for this. You have nothing to do with what your father–"

"There's a reason why SHIELD expunged this from my file."

A reason he tended to forget about the whole thing, even if Fury never did.

She looks at the wall screen, his father's file up for everyone to see. Well, the whole world has seen.

Coulson doesn't know how long he's had it up there, how many hours _not looking_ at it, trying to come up with a way to explain himself. Sitting on his desk, not looking at it, arms crossed.

He watches Skye's face, not giving up anything. Other than her usual kindness and support. Coulson wonders if she is hiding how she really feels about this. He knows _he_ is. His eyes skim the picture of his father at thirty-two, when it all started. When Coulson says he doesn't remember even what his father looked like he means he's tried very hard not to, burying his file along his memories.

But maybe Skye sees it in a different way.

"I guess you think I should have told you," he says.

She tears her eyes from the screen.

"What? No," she says, brow furrowed. "Of course not. This is personal stuff."

Personal? They are not supposed to do personal. Except he kind of feels like he is doing that right now. He feels like – like the days when his scar stings at the edges, he feels like that, but all over his body.

"It isn't," he tells Skye. "But... I didn't want you to think I had ulterior motives in how I treated you."

She seems to think that over. In his mind the connection – the accusation, even though there's little truth there, because by then he already knew Skye too well, she could have never been anything other than herself, anything other than the red corvette – is very clear but maybe it's a leap for someone else. 

"What? That I'm like... your father?" she asks.

"Yes."

"Well, I wouldn't have thought that," Skye says. "You could have told me, yes. But if you didn't want to–"

Something about Coulson's expression must have stop her. For moment he doesn't know. It's a tiny moment of numbness, maybe that's what is disturbing Skye. He hopes. Numbness seems like a better alternative to opening the blinds.

"My father was sick."

"Because of the 084," Skye says.

He tries to smile at the irony. He can't. He wonders if he should smile at the other irony, about him being on the Index as well, just like his dad. Layers of irony. Mirrors upon mirrors. Him and his dad, him and Skye. Coulson feels suffocated when he thinks about that; how his life rhymes.

"Skye, he–"

He clenches his jaw. It would be unfair, she shouldn't have to watch him cry. Also he's the Director of a shadow organization helped by people with superpowers, that sort of man shouldn't cry.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I didn't mean to –"

She must wonder, still. Why he never told her. Why it was too painful. It still is.

"Are you all right?" she asks. 

The way she asks that question sometimes, Coulson feels like she is the only person who does.

He extends his arm towards her, wrapping his fingers around her hip very lightly, pulling her towards him as he stands up from the desk. She is a bit surprised (she sort of stumbles into the hug, almost loosing her footing when Coulson tugs her closer), but she offers no resistance and soon she wraps her arms around his back, shyly, resting one open palm on the small of it.

There's a quietness that comes over the whole office, like being underwater. He buries his face in the curve of Skye's neck. It's weird to be rewarded by calmness after doing something impulsive. With silence. He can hear his own pulse reflected on Skye's skin. Her heartbeat is quieter, a sweet pressure against his body. If he tries he can remember his father's face at thirty-two, just when everything started.

"It's okay," Skye says against the side of his neck. First she barely mutters it but then she says it again, more assured, like she is worried he hasn't heard. It's okay. And her hand snakes up his back until she is touching her fingertips to the back of his neck, gingerly. Why does he find that so comforting? Skye feels like something cold and solid against his damp, hot face. 

He draws a long breath against the fabric of her shirt, the scent of her, the falling, sigh-like sound he makes at the back of his throat swallowed by Skye's body.

_It's okay_

 

 

**2.**

He's been wondering how long before his absence gets a notice. He's not hiding, but mainly because he knows he could never get away with it. In the end it's not surprising that it's Skye the one who knocks gently at the door of his office and walks in without waiting for a response.

"If you wanted to drink, there's plenty of booze downstairs," she tells him. " _Believe me_ on that."

He does. He left the group when Bobbi was telling some crazy story about a secret mission in Arizona.

Skye walks right up to him, behind his desk, eyes bigger than usual and looking directly at him.

"This," Coulson says, tilting the bottle of scotch in his hand. "Hunter gave me this."

Skye arches an eyebrow, surprised, and takes the bottle in her hands to examine it. "Really? Was it some kind of bribe?"

"Birthday present," Coulson says.

He watches as Skye presses her lips together and returns the bottle to him.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I don't know what I'm supposed to say."

Coulson shrugs, the couple of drinks dulling the moment just a tiny bit. Not enough. But maybe something he needs right now. He's not a heavy drinker by any account, always surrounded by people who used alcohol to take the edge off, which made Coulson afraid, He's never one to relinquish control. Not even tonight.

"You are not supposed to say anything, Skye."

But Skye is an obsessive fixer and if she stays silent now it's only because she's sad as well.

"This is the life we chose," Coulson adds.

Skye shakes her head. "Don't say that."

Yeah. It's a trite, commonplace, something to allow yourself some sweet self-pity instead of facing the fact of what has happened – what will happen again. Coulson looks at Skye – maybe next time it will be her. There's always that possibility. He didn't know that before that cold cellar in Italy, he thought she would always be safe. But now he knows anyone's game.

"He was your friend too," he tells her.

"Yeah but I wasn't –"

"The one who gave the order."

She's so close to him he can feel her hold her breath. Or he can hear her heartbeat getting faster. He's not sure. Maybe it's his breath, his heartbeat.

She bites the inside of her cheek. She's designed many operations herself. It's useless, trying to asign blame. It's useless trying _not to_ tonight.

"He died a hero," Skye says. She brushes her fingers along the label of the bottle, half-smiling. "I bet he didn't see that coming."

"They all die heroes," Coulson replies. "They die anyway."

They all die heroes and I keep getting older, he thinks.

"Coulson?" Skye says.

"Yes."

"A birthday present to your boss _is_ a bribe."

He lifts his face towards her and let out a chuckle.

Skye lifts her hand, touches the side of Coulson's head, running her fingers through his hair. Coulson closes his eyes as she steps closer. He hugs her, his arm around her back and his cheek against her stomach.

And they stay like that for what seems like an eternity even though Coulson is pretty sure it goes on for less than half a minute. Skye threading her fingers in his head. Coulson keeping his eyes tightly shut. There's no risk of tears this time, he's all used up, done. He actually feels tired, mostly, and something about Skye's presence – familiar and undecipherable, quiet and alive – is so soothing to him. Like he could go to sleep here pressed agains her chest and forget he just got another good man killed.

But that's a problem.

This is a problem.

He presses his hand against her hip, peeling her from him a bit, half a step. Her fingers stop their comforting caresses, the tips still touching Coulson's hair. He looks up and meets Skye's curious, kind expression.

"Thank you," he says. 

Skye rolls her eyes, but they are soft, soft eyes right now.

Her fingers run a straight line down the back of his head before falling away.

"Anytime, Director," she says.

He still has his arm wrapped around her waist but she doesn't seem to mind.

"Could you leave?" he asks.

She frowns a bit at the sudden change. He is still touching her, shows no indication he's going to stop. Her warmth – is she warmer than regular people or is just the impression he gets? – is too good a thing right now. He feels himself drifting from the shame and the guilt he was trying to feel in order to drown everything else.

"Of course. Why?"

"Because you make me feel better.," he explains. "I don't want to feel better right now."

He draws a breath waiting for the reply, almosy wishing she'd say no.

Skye nods, touching his hair one last time before walking out and leaving him alone.

Coulson looks at the bottle of scotch. Maybe it was neither a present nor a bribe. Perhaps Hunter just knew he was going to need it some day.

 

 

**3.**

He takes a long breath against her shoulder – everything smells like ashes, like locked rooms, the coppery smell of his own blood. He holds on to Skye, tight, _too tight_ , digging his fingers into the softness of her arms, her body. Digiing his fingers into her like the world is shaking. But it's not. He should know. She should know.

"Are you hurt?" she asks.

He shakes his head, then nods.

He doesn't know how long he's been here. Hours probably. It feels like days. The pain had been okay, bearable, until the moment he thought he was really going to die. And he didn't want to. Many reasons – the work he still has to do – but the biggest reason is holding him now in her savior-like arms.

He wants to ask many questions. How did they find him, mainly.

But he wants to rest. Here's nice. Here smells of Skye. Here are strong arms. Here he can be tired and defeated and it'll be okay. It's going to be okay. Skye will find him. She lets him hold her for a while, resting her chin on the top of his head. He can feel her mouth pressed to his scalp.

"Coulson..." Skye calls, eventually.

There's fear in her voice. She's stroking the back of his neck. Oh yeah he should be talking. He should be saying everything is fine. He lifts his gaze. Skye's face has changed in this last year – the last remnants of youthful roundness gone from her cheeks, the constant lack of sleep wrinking the corner of her eyes – but when she frowns at him like this, concerned, she's the same girl she ever was, the one who saved him from hell and then asked what he'd told the demons. That's the face, that's the same tilt of the head. She hasn't changed at all.

"I think I might be in shock," he tells her and he tries a feeble smile.

Skye's smile is an even worse attempt.

But it sort of carries them through it.

He leans back on his legs, lets Skye properly take a look at his state. It's almost an agent-like thought there, almost considering self-preservation instead of just solace.

"This doesn't look that good," she says, holding his arm in her hand, fingers carefully wrapped around his wrist.

Careful, powerful. The words that make most sense when he thinks about Skye.

He looks down. The blood doesn't let him see the cut and he doesn't know how deep it is, he doesn't exactly feel it. He's feeling too many other things.

"Move your fingers," she tells him.

He does. He can, apparently. It doesn't hurt too much. He watches Skye's face relax. He swears she doesn't look as pale as when she burts into the room. _Oh_. 

"You'll be just fine, soldier," she tells him, smirking as she grabs his shirt and pulls him up from the ground.

He'll be fine. It's going to be okay. Yeah. He remembers. _It's okay_.

"I'll get you out of here," Skye says.

 

 

**4.**

He's not sure what prompts the hug.

He knows one moment Skye is walking towards the door and the next he's stopping her, one arm around her waist, just as she is about to turn the knob. The hug pushes her back against the door, both pressed against the glass.

Nothing has happened.

Meaning: he has no excuse.

He wants this.

No, it doesn't feel like that, actually. It feels like he _needs_ it. Except he can't find a reason.

Maybe it's because she's going on a mission. Not a dangerous one – he would understand the impulse then, if he thought Skye was about to face danger. He's felt that impulse before. Not this time. A long mission. Is that it?

"I'll miss you," he says into her neck. Mutters it, because it's absurd, and as soon as he says it he hopes Skye hasn't heard.

She's heard.

Skye stiffens in surprise at the words. Yeah, yeah, he gets it. This pathetic. She's going to be gone – what? A week? At most. A miserable week. 

Skye makes a "uh?" sounds. He grabs her by the hair gently and turn her head until their mouths meet. That's a line he'd never though he'd cross. Did he think there was a line to cross, that's a different question. From the beginning. He opened the door of a van hoping to find a Rising Tide active, finding a beautiful girl. He can claim commitment, not innocence. The line was clear. He was comfortable knowing he would never step out of it. 

What changed?

It can't have been today. Skye is just going on a mission. He keeps repeating that on his mind. Coulson's grip on her waist tightens, a little bit bolder, when Skye's mouth opens, very slowly, and he kisses her deeper, slowly too. It's almost light, feather-light, the touch, he's surer in the hands. Skye's hipbone. Skye's hair. He holds on to those. Her mouth – too new. He can only brush and brush, close his lips almost devotionaly over her bottom lip, scared of being struck by lightning if he does. This is Skye. What can be a worse sin than this? And yet the idea of not seeing her for a few days – a meager few days, but it's like all the absences have been accumulated, all the wasted time he didn't know he was wasting. All the missions before, and the future missions that will come in between them, no doubt. If _this_ doesn't come in between first. He should do something about that.

He pulls away, breaking the kiss, the feeling of Skye's lips slipping from between his almost too much, almost worst than that first moment where he touched her without knowing what he was doing too well.

"I'm sorry," Coulson says but his hands can't stop playing with her hair in a very deliberate way.

Skye seems to be chasing the sensation of his hands on her, half-closing her eyes even though they are not kissing anymore.

"Don't apologize," she says, her voice low and husky. Coulson feels like his heart is too big for his ribcage right now, like his body is too small for what it contains. It hurts.

"Skye..."

"Mmm?"

"Can I...?"

"Kiss me again? _Yeah_."

He brings his lips down on hers just as slowly and fearfuly as the first time.

 

 

**5.**

A nightmare. _His_ this time. It's like they are taking turns. They are nightmare people. Breathing-at-two-in-the-morning people. Hiding-under-the-cover-and-speaking-soft-words-to-each-other people. It took long to do be afraid, not to be ashamed. Now he barely remembers what it felt like, doing this alone.

He sits up and rubs his temple. Headache nightmare. Nightmare in blue and green. A hundreed needles going into his brain. A memory? He's not sure. The panic feels real enough, like something he has done before. Green and blue and sharp.

Skye stirs awake, half-awake, eyes closed but arms already extended into the darkness, searching for Coulson. Already searching for him. I'm here, she seems to say, her whole body, the presence in his once-lonely bed. I'm here as if he didn't know.

She wraps her arms around his shoulders. She doesn't say anything. She doesn't have to. He can feel her heartbeat against his arm, so much calmer than his own. She brushes her lips against the shell of his ear. He slowly unclenches his fists, bedsheets bunched in his hands. Skye waits for his breathing and his pulse to even out.soft vibrations from her body to his, designed to make him feel more relaxed. The perks of. He almost smiles. He would – she deserves it – but he is focusing on his breathing. With her right hand Skye scrapes her nails tenderly across his nape, combing the damp hair there. She only lets him go for a moment when Coulson stretches to reach the glass of water on the bedside table, but she keeps stroking his hair all throughout.

This moment –blue and green and blue and needles– hurts, but he didn't know how good it could be, to have someone with him at the other side of it. He touches Skye's arm, the one around his chest, he feels for her hot sleep-skin and for the soft layer of hair. There's that promise – her mouth on his neck – that in a few minutes they'll be lying on their sides, talking in whispers under the covers like kids, or making love, or Skye will hold him through the night. There's always good things at the end of all the bad things – good things at the end of everything since he has Skye with him.

 

 

**6.**

"The view is weird," Skye is saying.

"Mmm."

Well, it's supposed to be different. That's the whole point of what they are doing. Building something. Not just picking up the mantle. Not just being heirs. Bulding something new, theirs. It's not the Triskellion, granted, but it's public, it's visible, no more shadows, no more running.

"You don't like the height?" he asks. To be honest he doesn't know how Skye feels about heights – he knows how she feels about moving their whole operation here, she feels like him, conflicted but hopeful. It's strange to think that even after all this time there's a slight detail about her he doesn't know. Does skye like heights? He must make sure to ask.

"I liked the Playground," Skye replies.

"We brought the desk." He likes that desk but it makes very little sense with the decor here. Modern blue and gray. Metallic colors. Lots of glass but not how he used to have. He misses the Playground too. It just got a bit small for them.

" _And_ the couch," she adds, throwing him a smile from over her shoulder.

Coulson leaves the file he was looking at – building specifications, security detail, urgent repairs, _budget_ concerns – on the desk. His old desk.

He walks up to Skye, hugging her from behind, wrapping his arms around her middle. She leans back, arching easily against his chest, a movement that feels wonderfully familiar. He's scared, even if he won't admit it – even if he'll play the level-headed company guy to Skye's future nostalgia. He's scared of what change means. He's scared of messing it up. But he messed the old life quite a bit and he's still here. She's still here. He uses her as an anchor, even in the vertigo of the twenty-sixth floor he knows this will be okay.

He rests his head on her shoulder. He likes it there. It comforts him. The warmth, the smell (of her shampoo, of their shared bed). Against his cheek he can feel the muscles on Skye's face moving, forming a smile. It's been a long morning in a string of long, exhausting, bureacratic days. It's nice to have a moment for themselves, to step back and look at what they are doing.Skye can always do that for him – stop the world if he needs it. (She could also literally stop the world if she wanted, which some people think it's creepy, but he can't help but find the idea cool, she's cool). He presses his palm against the flat of her stomach, kisses her hair.

"Somebody came to work feeling sappy," Skye comments.

Coulson agrees. He's getting older, he's getting softer. He likes it.

"Don't get me wrong, I like it," Skye adds, like she can read his mind. Maybe she can. Maybe thoughts vibrate too. Who knows the kind of power she'll achieve next. H's kind of excited to be there when it happens.

"So," he says. "Do you like the view outside?"

"I prefer the view inside," she says, turning in his embrace until Coulson has his arms around her shoulders. Her nose brushes his cheek as to make the point.

"Ah."

He kisses her softly on the mouth.

"Then again that's what you were hoping I would say," she says.

"It's always appreciated, Director Coulson."

"Well, you're welcome, Director Coulson."

She turns around again, resting the back of her head on Coulson's shoulder.

They both look at the new view together.


End file.
